Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Think not because no man sees, such things will remain unseen.

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Tags : Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes , Time Quotes , Men Quotes

Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, a shadow on those features fair and thin. And softly, from the hushed and darkened room, two angels issued, where but one went in.

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For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build.

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Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

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The picture that approaches sculpture nearest Is the best picture.

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When we walk towards the sun of Truth, all shadows are cast behind us.

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That was the first sound in the song of love! Scarce more than silence is, and yet a sound. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate. We hear The voice prophetic, and are not alone.

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Wisely improve the Present. It is thine.

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Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

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Even He that died for us upon the cross, in the last hour, in the unutterable agony of death, was mindful of His mother, as if to teach us that this holy love should be our last worldly thought - the last point of earth from which the soul should take its flight for heaven.

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A sermon is no sermon in which I cannot hear the heartbeat.

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In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

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For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.

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White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

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Joy, temperance, and repose, slam the door on the doctor's nose.

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Love makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.

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Whenever nature leaves a hole in a person's mind, she generally plasters it over with a thick coat of self-conceit.

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More hearts are breaking in this world of ours Than one would say. In distant villages And solitudes remote, where winds have wafted The barbed seeds of love, or birds of passage Scattered them in their flight, do they take root, And grow in silence, and in silence perish.

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The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright. The house is full of life and light.

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Only a look and a voice; then darkness again and silence.

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